


write me a heartbeat

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dear John Letter, Epistolary, Getting Together, Kinda, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Time Shenanigans, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:23:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Mr. Sgt. Barnes Sir?You ‘member the chenchurion’s slave? ‘Cause I heard a story it was actually his boyfriend.I’d be your secret servant boyfriend.Anyway. Tell Steve ‘hi’. An’ by that I mean, tell him ‘bye’ and don’t you fuckin’ dare kiss him. I know you already kissed all your ladies but your first boy kiss is mine.Clint
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 33
Kudos: 103





	write me a heartbeat

Bucky finds the letter later, after the fires have stopped burning and the bullets stopped spraying, in his breast pocket, with no real clue how it got there. But it’s mud soaked and smells like smoke, and written in what looks to be glittery purple pencil and all he can think is “What the goddamned fuckin’ hell?”

Bucky hasn’t gotten a letter since he left his shithole apartment in Shelbyville. The only person who might’ve considered writing him letters was currently snoring in the mud next to him, and Bucky glances at Steve before he opens the letter. 

He feels like… like he’s done something so terribly right, but like Steve won’t understand. 

He’s not sure why. 

> _ Dear Mr. Sgt. Bucky Barnes Sir, _
> 
> _ You don’t know me, on account of how you’re not around no more. (By the way, anyone who says written letters to history folks is a good lesson is a lazy teacher.) But anyhow you don’t know me yet. _
> 
> _ You’re gonna though. And it’s gonna be awesome. _
> 
> _ My name is Clint Barton. I live in INdianna an I go to - _

There’s a huge ink blot and Bucky’s already confused. The ink changes, too, a brilliant pink that kinda makes his head hurt. 

> _ Natasha, she’s my best friend, she says ‘m not supposed to tell you everything yet. On account a how you don’t know me yet. But that’s stupid ‘cause I’m gonna marry your face one day. _
> 
> _ It’s true! I saw it. I woke up from a nightmare and saw you with your long hair and that pretty tux and you was marryin’ me. _

Bucky tugs at his hair, long by regulation standards but still decently short. 

> _ It’s okay you don’t know me yet Tash says that’s how the pockets work. Tash is brilliant, and magic, but sometimes she lies so I don’t know exactly if she’s right but it’s okay. _
> 
> _ You’ll see, when we get married. _
> 
> _ But I’m not supposed to say that. On account of how you’re not around, and magic is a sin, and guys don’t marry guys. _
> 
> _ Can I tell you a secret? ‘Course I can cause you already know this secret. The church and my daddy is wrong. Guys can too get married. You’ll see. _
> 
> _ I love you, even though you don’t know me yet. I love you the way you love- _

The writing gets small, gets faint, but Bucky’s heart stops. 

> _ Steve Rogers. It’s okay that you love him right now, I reckon. On account of me not being there yet. _
> 
> _ Anyway. _
> 
> _ Natasha says I gotta let you go now. And that I gotta burn the letter ‘cause Barney and my daddy’ll beat me senseless if they see it. _
> 
> _ I don’t know how it gets to you, the letter. Tash says it will. _
> 
> _ Natasha lies sometimes, but she’s magic, and she won’t lie about my man. _
> 
> _ Clint. _

Bucky’s hands shake like he might be sick, but he doesn’t know why. 

He doesn’t get rid of the letter though, even with its career ending secret penned out in glitter-pink ink. As he’s folding it up, he sees something on the back. 

> _ P.s. Tash says if you wanna write me back you gotta do it with a pen dipped in sage and blood, and you gotta bury it in the mud. Sounds real dumb to me, but Tash wouldn’t lie about this. She says, and ima write it just how she says says it, but ‘That dumb motherfucker has to write it like he means it, with a pen dipped in sage and blood, and he has to bury it like his heart is, deep in the mud.’ _
> 
> _ I kinda don’t want a letter, if you have to bury it because Tash looks sad when she says “bury it deep like his heart in the mud” and I don’t like the thought of you sad and stuff but I also kinda would like a letter too. So you know, whatever. I’ll write to you sometime after this dumb assignment ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m gonna fail and get detention and my dad’s gonna be pissed as hell. _

Bucky tucked it into his boot and stares at the mud, fingers itching for a pen. 

-

Bucky fingers the letter, now wrapped in protective wax paper, and tries to decide if he’s real. If the paper is real. 

But then he’s hunkered down next to Steve, shield above their heads as bullets fly. Then he’s running, some punk kid too far over his side of the lines and somehow, rain, slip, mud, there’s a knife at his throat. 

He’s not worried- or he is, but he’s distracted by a weight against his breast _ he shouldn’t be aware of in this moment._

It’s been a hellish few weeks. 

Steve knocks the kid back, blood gushing above his brow that he’ll most likely survive, and gives Bucky a queer look. 

Bucky ignores it, following his men to the relative safety of a cave. 

He waits two days to pick the paper up. Two days huddle wet around a fire that’s never enough, remembering the press of the knife against this neck, the sudden _ awareness _of a scrap of paper and since it’s just him, he admits he’s afraid. 

His fingers tremble, mud and hunger and cold, but no one pays him any attention. He’s struck, immediately, by dark circles mating the crisp paper. He knows that brown-red, the smell of old and new copper. It makes him sick, but he forces himself to read. The writing is still sloppy, done up in a hard-to-read orange. 

> _ Dear Mr. Sgt. Bucky Barnes Sir, _
> 
> _ Turns out I didn’t fail. Teach didn’t even read the letters. Just made sure we wrote ‘em. S’posedly this is gonna be a year long assignment so buckle in Buck. _
> 
> _ Dad and Barney weren’t happy any how. I don’t know exactly what or why. Doesn’t matter no how. Tash says my nose bein’ all crooked like is gonna make me more lady-attractive. _
> 
> _ Tash is stupid ‘cause she knows I don’t do ladies, but she’s smart ‘cause maybe Barney was being nosy. _
> 
> _ I didn’t get no letters from you but that’s okay, ‘cause Tash, she says maybe you ain’t like us and you can’t find the pockets. She says you’re dumb as fuck, cause she told you about the mud and the sage but that’s okay. Dear John letters don’t get written just for replies, I think. ‘Less a lady sent her man off. _
> 
> _ Tash says I’m a stupid fucker anyway, for pining over you instead of Steve but Tash goes to church every Sunday even tho they’d burn her for being a little magic. _
> 
> _ Steve is too… _
> 
> _ Well maybe I shouldn’t tell you on account of how you love him and maybe even boned him in the cold caves and stuff. _
> 
> _ Anyway. It’s late and I can’t get caught past bedtime. _
> 
> _ Please, Mr. Bucky Sir, _
> 
> _ Can you be safe? I’m afraid to read all the history on you. I always get to the same spot - _
> 
> The letter has scratches again, thick inky things that almost tear the paper. 
> 
> _ Sorry, Natasha said too much information is bad again. Anyway. I hope you’re happy. Safe. I hope he loves you right, since it don’t look like I’m gonna get the chance. _
> 
> _ Shit. Before you think it, I’m not too young to know I love you. Lots of people know at thirteen who they’re gonna marry. _
> 
> _ Me? I’m pretty sure it’s you, even if I ain’t figure out how yet. Natasha is magic and she says I got the sensitivities in me too, and the world is full of pockets so I’m gonna hold out to that. To me marrying you. _
> 
> _ Even if you marry fuckin’ Steve Rogers first. _
> 
> _ -Clint _
> 
> _ P.s. Write me back mutherfucker, so I can rub it in Tash’s face. _

He shouldn’t, but Bucky laughs loud and hard and belly busting. Maybe it’s the disrespect toward Steve. Maybe it’s the absolute absurdity of it all. 

Maybe, _ maybe _, it’s the terrifying thing growing in his gut that wants to protect this dumb ass kid he’s never met. 

Whatever it is, he wraps it with the other in the wax paper, and tucks it into his underwear. 

-

> _ My Dearest Jamey _,

The letter makes Bucky ill, makes his already bruised and empty stomach roll. He woke up this morning, bandaged and hooked up to an IV, letter crumpled in his fist. 

He wants to ask how long he’s been out, but it’s dark, (he’s using the moon's glow and some heavy squinting to read this) and there’s no one around. 

> _ I miss you. _

The hand writing, square and blocky is so much neater and Bucky almost misses the fun colors traded for a blue. 

> _ It feels insane to say this. To say “I miss you,” to a man who- _
> 
> _ To a man I’ve technically never met. Natasha is afraid. It’s been so long since the last letter from you, since the last pocket. _
> 
> _ She’s wondering if we’ve done something wrong. Messed up a thing we never should’ve touched. I think, _

The comma is a heavy smear, like Clint’s hand sat there a long time. 

> _ Please, James. I know it might be fate or destiny or true love, but don’t pick him. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for what I told you. _
> 
> _ I know you guys said “to the end of the line” but that can’t be all you’ve ever said to each other. _
> 
> _ Don’t you get it James? You’re not just the kid followin’ him around anymore. And he’s not the boy who needed your protection. And I’m sorry, but it’s true. He loves you, maybe once was in love, but it’s always going to be her for him. _
> 
> _ Just like it’s always going to be you for me. _
> 
> _ I know you’re still out there. I can feel you l, just like I did when I was a kid, just like I did in the circus. I’m a little magic and you’re a little magic and Natasha is a lot of magic, so we’ll make it through this. You’ll make it through, you hear me? _
> 
> _ Be safe, James. _
> 
> _ Don’t pick him, be safe. _
> 
> _ Yours, _
> 
> _ Clint. _

Bucky has to be hallucinating. None of it makes sense, not even the parts he knows, the secret things settled in his gut about Steve and the future and himself. 

He doesn’t remember writing a letter, but it makes him think. 

He has paper, has a pen. He doesn’t have sage but he definitely has the blood thing covered. 

It doesn’t matter, because even as his pen drips ink all over his pristine parchment, he doesn’t have words. He doesn’t _ know _ this Clint, despite the pang in his heart when he thinks of him. He’s not even sure Clint is real, and not some war-induce daydream to cope. 

He ends up scribbling something short, some generic Dear John thanks. 

> _ Clint, _
> 
> _ Glad you wrote me, kid. I’ll be safe. Make your mama happy. _
> 
> _ Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. _

He leaves out a lot of the proper heading and closing. He’s not exactly sure what prompts him too, but it’s not like he’s going to mail this proper anyway.

Before the nurses come back, he scuffles up from his bed and tromps outside. It’s hot enough that the dirt is hard, not muddy. He ends up dumping two bed pans out and praying _ mud _ of any sort is enough.

He’s already short the sage, but he’s delusional so what does it matter? Besides, if belief is enough for heaven, it’s enough for a magic fuckin’ letter.

As Bucky is patting the last of the urine soaked mud down, really truly hoping it makes it to some dumbass kid from Indy-fuckin-ana, his head trips hard. For a moment, just a heart beat and a blink really, there’s a boy of maybe sixteen. He’s wearing a leotard, all purple glitter, and he’s impossibly bent off a rope so high Bucky’s afraid. The air wizzes right through Bucky’s chest and he faints, but it’s most probably the blood loss. 

-

> _ Dear Mr. Sgt. James Barnes Sir, _
> 
> _ I found out only your friends got to call you Bucky, and much as I wanna be your friend, (more ‘n your friend) I’m guessing we ain’t there yet. _

For once the letter comes in the mail. All the guys, Steve included, give Bucky a weird look when he’s handed an envelope with green crayon writing. He shrugs, ‘cause they’ve all gotten a random letter or two. It’s just funny to see “Sgt. James Barnes” done up in crayon. 

Still he hunches over his rations and doesn’t let the others watch as he read. The letter has the same red-old-new copper thing going on that makes Bucky itch. 

> _ Sometimes I don’t think we get there. Not ‘cause of you or nothin’ so don’t get all panicky and hero-y and do some stupid soldier boy shit. _
> 
> _ Barney’s gonna kill me, if my dad doesn’t first. _
> 
> _ The church is wrong tho, about boys like me. Don’t think I ain’t seen the preacher eyeing some of the men. _
> 
> _ Mr. Sgt. Barnes Sir? You ‘member the chenchurion’s slave? ‘Cause I heard a story it was actually his boyfriend. _
> 
> _ I’d be your secret servant boyfriend. _
> 
> _ I’m not gonna write for a bit, Mr. Sgt. Barnes Sir, cause I gotta go join the circus now. They need an acrobat and I can shoot a bow. _
> 
> _ Natasha’s comin’ with me. She says it’s to protect my dumb ass, but I think it’s ‘cause I’m really all her family, ya know? _
> 
> _ Anyway. Tell Steve ‘hi’. An’ by that I mean, tell him ‘bye’ and don’t you fuckin’ dare kiss him. I know you already kissed all your ladies but your first boy kiss is mine. _
> 
> _ I tried something else, too. ‘Cause we got this Romani woman who sells stuff (and honestly might be Tash’s ancestor or something) and she showed me how to make this lucky charm. That red? That’s my blood. Don’t worry, it was already comin’ from my nose. We put it in this stuff she called ross-in. And it got all smooth and stuff. I mighta stolen the chain, but that’s real, honest to God silver. Woulda cost me a month’s grass cuttin’ money. Tash says it’s not an amount you’d get. Says it’d cost you a month rent and groceries or somethin’. _
> 
> _ Any how, Miss Romani says it’s good luck. She says it’ll go through ‘cause it’s part of me. She says don’t wear it by your heart though, ‘cause our beats might get all mixed. Put it in your pocket and hold it real tight until it leaves a mark when things get bad an’ you ought to be okay. _

Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls out a delicate chain, with a small clear circle on the end. There’s a smear of dark copper in the center.

> _ Guess ‘m s’pose to admit Steve’ll be safe too, if that’s what you want. Just wish real hard when you hold it. _
> 
> _ Clint _

Bucky falls asleep that night, back to Steve and clutching the stupid necklace. 

He doesn’t have nightmares for once.

No one in his tent does. 

-

> _ Mr. Sgt. Barnes, _
> 
> _ You’re a goddamned beautiful specimen, you know that? Goddamned beautiful fucker, and it’s no wonder scores of boys like me are buyin’ one way tickets to the homohells over you. _
> 
> _ Natasha made me go to this stupid fuckin’ museum in this no where town we’re in. _
> 
> _ Business is slow, and people aren’t buying Tash and I are poor orphaned nobodies from wherever the hell Russia. _
> 
> _ S’nice tho, all the time we got to wander. _
> 
> _ Anyway. This shithole ain’t got two cafes and a supercenter but they got this dumb old war museum. _
> 
> _ I loved it. _
> 
> _ Until I got to the Commandin’ Howlies exhibit. _
> 
> _ It hurt, lookin’ at the sketches. Somehow they’re different then the grainy black’n’whites I used to trace hearts around in school. _
> 
> _ ‘Cording to the lady talkin’, I got Steve to thank. Damn, but in another life he’d‘ve been a hell of an artist. _
> 
> _ I bet you told him that, didn’t you, when you curled up next to him. _
> 
> _ When your hands traced his. I saw it, in those pictures. He captured this warmth in your eyes, did it in charcoal smears. This fear, even when you're smiling and your eyes crinkle and you duck your head. Don’t know how he did it, but I can see you blushin’. _
> 
> _ Can I tell you a secret? I don’t think it’s just you. I mean, it’s different, and I don’t think Steve even sees it, but all of y’all love him. So much so, y’all sit there cold and bloody and lookin’ at this lug who hung the Stars. _
> 
> _ Shit. _
> 
> _ Fuck. _
> 
> _ Goddamn it. _
> 
> _ You don’t have to, Bucky. Wait on me. If I was there- _
> 
> _ No promises. You ain’t gotta wait. But you gotta save Steve’s drawins. Even the shitty landscapey ones. They’re so bleak, but he makes you wanna be there. He makes black and white bleed all over rollin’ hills and crumbling mountains. _
> 
> _ It’s goddamned beautiful, you’re goddamned beautiful. _
> 
> _ I get it. _
> 
> _ Well, I don’t. But I get how I feel about you, and sometimes, when I look at the picture I stole, I think I get what Steve feels too. _
> 
> _ We’re movin’ out tomorrow. They’ll check my shit, make sure I ain’t takin’ nothing I don’t own. So I guess I’ll give you this one. I think Steve was gonna anyhow, seeing how it’s a private moment for you. _

Clint didn’t sign this letter, written hastily on a bumpy surface. 

Bucky kinda didn’t know Steve still drew much, but it makes sense. He carefully pulls the drawing off the back of the letter, frowning. That’s him alright, or his back anyway. And he sees what Clint means because this is just ash on scrap paper, but Bucky can practically see the moon glowing off the water, off his skin. His face, down turned and hair trying to cover it looks… peaceful, almost. Sad. 

He’s kinda pissed Steve drew this, but he’s not sure why, so he tucks it and the letter with the others in the wax paper. He shoved them into a cedar box at the bottom of his pack. 

That night, Bucky dreams. The air smells like popcorn and hay, and there are twins up on a rope. He wants to tell them to be safe, to wait for him to catch them, but the boy jumps, freefalling through the air, and Bucky jerks awake screaming a name that’s all wrong but familiar. 

-

He doesn’t talk to Steve about the picture tucked between letters from a stranger. He doesn’t mention it, and it feels wrong, keeping a secret like this, but Steve kept a secret first. _ Steve _drew things he had no business seein’.

Except that he _ had _ seen it before. Hell, he and Bucky had bathed before; desperate times and all. 

Bucky can’t explain why this picture bugs him so much, but he spends a lot of time thinking about the delicate slope of his own ass, the curve of his back, charcoal water dripping from hair that’s gotten entirely too long

Fuck Steve. 

And honestly? Fuck Clint and his goddamned letters and his fuckin’ talk of magic and pockets and witches. 

Bucky’s determines to put the nonsense from his mind, to focus on the perilous landscape they’re rumblin’ over. It’s been a while since he got one, anyway. Long enough that the weather has changed and the skies are oranges and leaves red. 

Of course, that’s when one floats right out of the goddamn sky. 

Bucky, who doesn’t believe in God or Luck, not really, says a prayer of thanks that the town they’re in is full of fallin’ scraps, because hell if he knows how to fuckin’ explain this one. 

The letters crumpled, dirt and blood smeared across it, black ink hard to read. Looks like Clint’s hand was shaking damn hard when he wrote it. 

> _ Jamey, _
> 
> _ ‘M thinkin Tash and Miss Romani was wrong about us. _
> 
> _ About you. _
> 
> _ Ain’t no way these letters ever get to you. Ain’t no way we meet. _
> 
> _ Doesn’t matter ‘nymore. It was a nice dream, while it lasted. All those letters burnt- almost a relief I won’t leave nothin’ behind but bits of purple spandex. _
> 
> _ We passed through Shelbyville. _
> 
> _ I didn’t want too. Tash, who never begs, got on her knees to see that I never had to come out to the ring. _
> 
> _ Didn’t much matter, Barney’d’ve found me covered in hay ‘n horse dung. _
> 
> _ You ever seen a guy’s guts spill out? Dumb question. I read about you ‘n the boy you tried to save. How you cried after ‘cause you said it felt… _
> 
> _ not empty, not cold. Heavy. That’s what you said, when he breathed out and not in again. _
> 
> _ Maybe cause it wasn’t you, but Jamey, it’s cold, bleedin’ here in the dirt, tryin to hold my stomach together. _
> 
> _ I feel bad, Tash is gonna find me like this. Not even sure this letter’ll burn and she’ll have to realize I wasted my last beats writin’ letters to a ghost who doesn’t care. _

The letter ends abruptly. Or maybe it doesn’t. The last bits are smeary, tear soaked and ash coated. 

Bucky wants to scream, but they’re not supposed to be here. He wants to cry, but how would he explain it. He reaches into his pocket, eyes shut and praying to nothing, feels the smooth circle and he squeezes so hard he thinks his knuckles might burst through the skin. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a cool breeze. The air smells like midnight and butter, and he can hear the ragged breathing of someone in the shadow. 

Doesn’t take long to find the guy. The kid. Jesus. He can’t be more than 18, if that. 

Blue eyes, dim and fading crack at him. “Shit. I really am dyin’ if you’re here.” Blond brows furrow. “Christ you look young. Younger ‘n I ‘spected. Thought you’d be ‘least 30.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how this works, how long he has. He gets to work. As far as wounds go, he’s seen worse, but Clint could bleed out anyway. “Bite this,” He demands, handing Clint his belt. 

Clint does, mumbling something under his breath. Bucky didn’t hear the words, but the tone still makes him blush. He doesn’t have _ anything _useful. 

He strips his shirt off, uses it to wrap the kid’s stomach tight. Tight enough he groans and blue eyes leak with tears. Then Bucky starts yelling. “He’s bleeding out! Someone come quick!”

He waits, holding Clint’s hand and marveling at the thick calluses, until he hears the pattering of feet on dust. 

“Stay?” Clint mutters groggily.

Bucky isn’t sure he can, isn’t sure how this works. “Thanks for the letters kid. But maybe lay off Steve a little. Poor punk is tryin’.”

Before either of them can say anything else, Bucky is stumbling on a real road, something loud going off in his ear. Steve catches him, gives him a queer look, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky rights himself, and takes off running. 

-

Bucky doesn’t get any letters after his little jaunt. He’s not got much time to worry about it, as they close in on the Nazi’s and all their secret shit. But it’s like this itch between his shoulders, that perfectly located thing he can’t reach. 

He’s got no way to explain it, to tell them of the letters he so desperate to feel against his skin. 

They’re busy running all across the burned countryside, chasing ghosts and leads and bullet storms. Bucky’s skin is dusted in red rain, no matter how often he tries to scrub it, and they’re always one wrong blink away from adding to the spray. 

He _ shouldn’t _ wake up gasping, hands clutching the air for parchment that ain’t real. 

Doesn’t stop him; doesn’t keep the screams in his throat or the images of a blond with his guts splayed from blurring behind Bucky’s exhausted eyelids.

Bucky doesn’t have time to write any letters or time to read any or time to _ want _ any, but he still manages two out of the three. 

And then.

Then his world drowns. 

Snow and trains and ice and ice and _ ice. _ Wind howling and pain, so goddamn much pain and he’s somehow lighter and heavier and the blood leaves him. Blood pours from his empty side and it freezes in his veins. The water is dark and cold and fills him.

When he shuts his eyes, there’s a grey smile bathed in golden light, a hand reaching out. _ “I know what I wrote you, but wait for me?” _

_ “I promise.” _

-

Winter wakes. He’s heavy; heavier on the empty side. He obeys, complies. Red spray stains his skin like glitter on a whore. He grows used to the strange grime under his nails, the long hair plastered to his cheeks and neck. 

He’s thankful for the mind that only obeys, even if he doesn’t know why. 

He never lets them find the letters.

He writes letters. Grunting half formed thoughts on scraps of paper. 

> _ I saved you. Save me. _

They mean nothing, they are nothing. 

> _ You were beautiful. You are all I remember. _

But they are his and that is enough to keep them from the handlers.

> _ I think I know what you were not allowed to tell me. _

-

Winter touches the river of blood from just beneath his ribs. It’s slowed down, so much he thinks he’s _ too late. _

He sits down, dirt mudding up under the life leaving him. He drags the pen through it, dips it in the ashes of the stolen and burnt sage. _ Mission. _ This is what he tells himself, because this is all he knows. For once, his thoughts are human, coherent.

> _ Clint, _
> 
> _ I’m sorry. I thought- _
> 
> _ I do not know. I do not know anything. _
> 
> _ Except this; I would have loved to meet you someday. And I would have loved to learn you. And when I had learned you, I would have loved to love you. Not like Steve. How I loved him was complete, but loving you would have overflowed. But it’s too late now, and I’m sorry I didn’t write more, and I’m sorry we never- _

They did though. How he knows this, how they met, Winter cannot figure out. But he sees flesh and muscle and blond hair in his hands.

> _ I think you survived. I know you survived. _
> 
> _ I’ve become a monster, Clint. So maybe I’m actually glad we never met for long. I could have loved you. Learned you. But you would have loved Steve’s version of me, a mere ghost of who I was and who I could have become. That is not who I am anymore. _
> 
> _ I haven’t been in more time than I can fathom. Maybe I’m glad Tash is magic. Glad she is magic but not magic enough. _
> 
> _ Maybe I’m glad about you too. _
> 
> _ I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, Clint. Except you are my last mission, and I will not make it. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Bucky _

He squeezes a medallion Hydra never managed to find, probably because of a curse or a prayer. A stupid little pendant, small glossy circle contained the rusty red of his heartbeat, filled with a kid’s affection and more magic than anyone could imagine. He squeezes and he doesn't pray or wish ‘cause he learned along time ago it didn’t work that way. 

His heart is stuttering, unable to pick between two frantic, broken rhythms. 

Dying is shit, and he clutches the gift in his palm until it feels like it’s burning, all the way through to the soul he used to have.

He can’t bury the paper in the mud, but he doubts it matters anymore. 

-

Voices, they’re supposed to sing Bucky through the dark. They aren’t working. Too loud, too frightened. 

“He’s here! I got- Widow I got ‘im,” smoke stained voice rough against his ears, calloused hands that feel like a hug. Everything is sideways, off balance and out of key.

“Please, wake up. Jesus don’t do this,” breath like pre-storm kiss on his face. “Aw, dying, no.” 

Arms, strong but trembling under his pits. Bucky hisses. Everything hurts. Too much, he lashes out. Fists his hands into a shirt, feels a garish ridge of mangled flesh, cutting through a belly button.

“I got you. I got you, ‘kay? Just a step, just a few,” said over and over and over like a mantra.

He doesn’t want to pass out. He wants to bathe himself in the smell of hay and ash and rosin. 

There’s a prick in his neck, sharp and biting and fleeting and he gasps, tries to struggle. His fingers curl over something small and round and the edges of the world go just a bit soft, hazy. Warm, like an embrace after too long in the rain.

-

Winter knows the letters never came properly. That the pockets didn’t care about linear time. He can’t remember how he knows this, or why it matters. But his fingers brush a pulse against his chest. It feels like a heartbeat, but not his own sluggish ticker choking in his chest.

He squeezes until the circle begins to grow, spreading across his palm, up his wrist and his arm. Soon, he’s engulfed in a warmth that settles like fresh laundered wool against his skin. Winter is afraid of it, afraid of how gentle it is. 

Noise washes around him, muffled, off center. It’s like, Winter pauses, chewing his cheeks. Once, when a blast went off right next to him, his ears gotta all ringy. This is what it feels like. 

The warmth radiates and tugs at him, tries to pry his eyes open but he’s afraid. Afraid if he opens his eyes all he’ll see is another trick. Another chair, another chamber, another _ freeze. _

It doesn’t smell like a bunker. It smells like metal, sure, at something earthy, damp. He inhales deeply, then wrinkles his nose and coughs. Smells like shit too. 

This is a suicide mission. His handlers do not seem aware. But Winter knows his limits. He’s going to die, and he’s not afraid. Fear has no place in this mission. 

But there’s something missing. Some incomplete agenda he _ has _ to finish.

He squeezes a small, clear circle in his palm and Winter opens his eyes. He can’t help gasping like a small child. This, the clear, open sky, the miles and miles of just earth? This is a dream. 

He sees him. His… not target. Not exactly. 

The blond. _ Clint, _ his palm seems to whisper. Clint is standing with his eyes shut and his hands on his hips, face turned to the clouds like he’s hearing angels. Or, whatever guys in plaid do when they stand ankle deep in shit and smile at the sun.

Winter stumbles forward and his boots are heavy in the dry earth. Does he call out? Does he disrupt the heavy peace? 

A breeze ruffles the dark hair falling from the knot at the base of his skull. “Help,” Winter manages to croak. His voice is disgusting and dry and he’s not sure it’s actually anything. 

Clint turns anyway. He’s got a lazy smile on, and cartoons wrapped around his knuckles. When blue eyes land on Winter, everything is okay. 

Even when Blue eyes go wide with panic.

Clint lunges for him even as Winter falls to his knees. His eyes have malfunctioned. Salt burns from them, but he’s not entirely sure why. Clint wraps around him, and he’s talking, but Winter’s ears are still stuffed with ringing. All he can do is rock into the strong arms holding him so tight. 

Clint manages to get him calmed pretty quickly. He leads him into a small wooden cabin. He strips Winter, and it should cause panic to well in him, but Winter finds himself relaxing under sure hands. 

Winter bathes himself though, sinking into the bubbles with a sigh. 

Clint feeds him sausage and pies. He never leaves Winter’s side, and he’s always ready to support him with a hand at his elbow. But he also seems afraid of Winter. Cautious and wary, hand pulling back as soon as Winter is steady. Winter frowns. “Found you,” he tells Clint.

That earns him a soft smile, crinkly eyes and crooked lips. “Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, you did.” 

“Staying,” Winter says. 

Clint’s eyes go sad. He pushes a cup of something and Winter pushes it back suspiciously. “I don’t think you can, this time. That’s not how it works.”

Winter clicks his teeth. “Found you. Saved you. Want you.”

He sees Clint’s resolve wavering. Clint reaches for him slowly, and when Winter doesn’t bite at him, he brushes back the dark hair that’s fallen into his face. “I want it, too. But it’s not time.”

Winter shake his head hard. he grabs Clint’s wrist, careful of his metal fingers, and pulls him. “Won’t go. Won’t leave you.” 

Clint pulls him close and Winter remembers how to do this. He tries to kiss Clint, catches his jaw and it’s enough. He can feel it when Clint’s resolve breaks. “Safe with you.”

Clint nods against him. “Stay as long as you can?” 

It feels like a dream. The best-worst promise as he follows Clint and settles into a bed too small for their sizes. He feels, for the first time in his limited memories, _ safe _ held this way. “Not going back. Saved you. Found you. Keep you.”

Clint’s heart beats against Winter’s. Winter smiles as the rhythms sync. For once his chest doesn’t ache, doesn’t feel short a beat. Sleep comes easy, but not until he whispers, desperate and pleading against Clint's snores, "Find me too?"

-

Winter can feel the pocket beginning to close. So he scribbles out a string of numbers and hopes Clint understands.

-

The next time he wakes, he doesn’t know if he’s Bucky or Winter. There’s a frantic fear bubbling in his gut, and he’s restrained, mouth muzzled and left arm deactivated.

_ “-Unnecessary!” _

He can hear that being yelled, but it sounds wrong. Like it’s in his head, not the room. 

_ “He’s not a threat. He’s a victim-” _

_ “No, I don’t give two shits about what Steve Rogers says. He’s not the only one with-” _

_ “Clint shut the fuck up.” _

_ “I have proof! I have the letter-” _

_ “I swear to God Clint, listen-” _

_ “No you-” _

_ “Jesus Fuck! He’s awake.” _

_ “Aw, consciousness, no.” _

There’s a lot of noise, of scrambling. Chairs on metal, weapons on a table. Bucky keeps his eyes closed, his fist clenched. There’s a warm little circle in his right palm that soothes him. 

He doesn’t open his eyes until a hand is cupping his cheek. 

“So.”

“You got my letter,” Bucky croaks out.

Clint smiles at him, grey eyes wide and mouth crooked. “You could’ve said more.” 

Bucky shrugs as best he can in his bindings. “Writing letters was your assignment, not mine.”


End file.
